I have been living a double life for the last 63 days. Neither of them was what I wanted. It’s like being torn between two worlds, never belonging to either. Let me show you a glimpse!

Every morning, I wake up from my eternal exile to the sound of a gentle alarm or the sound of raindrops on my window. I drag myself out of bed, shower, make coffee, read the news, listen to news, text my family and walk to my work.

At work, I sit with other teachers who talk about nothing but cakes for their kids’ birthdays. I listen to them and I feel numb.

“[…] No, he prefers strawberry cake over mixed fruits.”

“What about this one with pistachio instead of just chocolate? – I think, umm, and we can also print her photo on the cake.”

“I have candles for you — we are going to have a party in our garden.”

“Don’t forget to call the photographer.”

I watch their lips move. I watch them plan their kids’ happy day. I watch them argue over trivial things like the size of the cake, the taste of the pistachio : “[…] it must be fake […] I’m sure it’s not but maybe […]” I watch them ignore the reality of the world outside.

I think about my family and loved ones who are starving in Gaza. I think about my little brother, who had his birthday a couple of weeks ago, but he couldn’t celebrate it because of the constant bombings. I felt guilty for asking him how he was going to celebrate it. He sent me a picture of a piece of bread with tomato paste and wrote: “Turning 24 today, ha!”

I think about my family and loved ones who have had no access to clean water or food for weeks. It rained last week, and all the displaced people filled their empty bottles from the drains of the destroyed buildings and from the runoff down the tarps they sleep under.

I think about my sister-in-law, who is pregnant and can’t find any food that she likes. She told me in our last conversation. “If we survive this, I would love it if you could invite us to travel around Turkey, eat delicious food and see its beautiful nature. I really need this.” She sighed. “If we survive.”

I think about my family and the pictures they send me whenever they can. They are rare, because of the limited electricity and the frequent internet cuts. The pictures are gloomy, full of blood stains and grey.

Every morning at the school, parents drop their kids dressed in heavy winter coats and carrying their colorful book bags. They hug their kids tightly, kiss them goodbye, ask them if they would like extra money and stand till they disappear behind the school’s main gate.

I watch them and I think about my neighbors, who have to pull their kids out from under the rubble. Sometimes it is hard to tell if they are dead or alive, but often they are missing some body parts. They rush them to hospitals, praying all the way, hoping that they can find a nearby hospital or a donkey cart to carry them. They beg God to save their kids, to make them wake up, to make them alright, to end this nightmare.

I think about the dad who collected the pieces of his son in two plastic bags after they bombed Al-Mamadani Hospital. I think about the mother who carried the coffin of her daughter, talking to her, pleading with her to wake up. I think about the mother who waited for years to give birth to her son, only to receive his death certificate before his birth certificate. I think about the family that could not rescue their kids from under the rubble, because the Israeli occupation would shoot at them every time they tried. I think about the parents and families who said goodbye to their kids at mass graveyards, muttering prayers to a God that I wish was listening to them.

I think about two different lives, and I feel so trapped in between. I think about my dad and siblings, and I cannot imagine my life without them.

During my last conversation with my little brother, I asked him why he had stopped sending me pictures of their lives. He replied, “There is no need. I don’t think the world sees us or recognizes us anymore. It’s been two months, and I’ve given up. Whatever happens now, happens. I cannot do this anymore.”